


All Tied Up

by ficlicious



Series: Aftermath [7]
Category: Ant-Man (Movies), Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Humor, Kidnapping, Light Bondage, M/M, Multi, Not Canon Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Polyamory, Polyfidelity, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Safe Sane and Consensual, Safewords, The Author Regrets Nothing, Threesome - F/M/M, Unreasonable List of Ransom Demands, but not really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2018-10-26 08:51:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10783524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficlicious/pseuds/ficlicious
Summary: He's been kidnapped before. The majority of his drug-and-party-blurred teenage years notwithstanding, he can't remember a time concern over abduction wasn't a constant presence in the back of his head. Said concerns were not without merit either: in the last ten years alone, he's been an unwilling guest of any number of slimeball groups and one note villains looking to make their mark on Stark Industries or the Avengers.He never thought the next successful abduction would come from one of his own. In hindsight, he knows he should have seen it coming.





	1. The Teaser

**Author's Note:**

> This is a teaser for ... well, not Aftermath 7, because it's not Aftermath 7. 
> 
> This is Aftermath 6.5.

_ Cut to a shot of Tony Stark, looking disheveled, tie askew, tied to a chair. The wall behind him is blank and bare, and looks like it might be someone’s basement.  _

“So I’ve been kidnapped,” Tony says to the camera. “I’ve been told to tell you that my captors are treating me very well. And they are. So far. I mean, I’m still me, so I’m likely to piss them off at some point. Pepper, right now I know you’re panicking and thinking that this is Afghanistan all over again, but really, it’s not my fault. It’s yours. You  _had_ to go on vacation and you  _had_ to leave Lydia Hanover in charge, requiring me to practically sleep in my office and ignore my family. I’m putting this one all on you, Pep. 

“There’s a list of demands that are to be met before I’m released. Demand the first ⏤ really? Are you kidding me? You’ll never get him to do that ⏤ Captain Steven Grant Rogers, you must don an old school Captain America costume and sing the theme song to that terrible show from the 50s or 60s. I’m pretty sure my old man had a hand in that, which really explains a few things. This tribute to the Star-Spangled Man With A Plan must be recorded in at least 720dpi and uploaded to YouTube for the world to thoroughly enjoy.

“Colonel James Rhodes, your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to call up Roger Ailes or Rupert Murdoch or Sean Hannity, whoever answers the phone first, and explain on live air why a kitten could perform his job better than he can. Since it's the weekend, this will happen on Monday at the earliest.

“Doctor Bruce Banner, you've beaten up a lot of people, buildings, mountain ranges as the Hulk. Now, it's time for you to get beaten up… by tiny humans wearing foam Hulk fists. The package included with this video contains four sets. I'm sure you can find miniature agents somewhere to help you out. This will also be recorded and uploaded to YouTube, simultaneously with Rogers’s performance. I want to see, I mean,  _ my captors  _ want to see which video gets more views. 

“Scott Lang, who is not a doctor but should be — Hope, get him back to college for his doctorate already? It physically hurts me to see his brain underperforming because he's a Mister and thinks it can get away with that — somewhere in Manhattan is a new Raid billboard. My captors want you to find that billboard and have your photo taken, in full gear, running away from the woman spraying the can. You know what? I agree with them. That's fucking hilarious. Bonus points for getting Wasp in there too. 

“Clinton Francis Barton, dim light of my life and all-around pain in my ass…”

_ From off-camera, there is a muffled, “Hey!” which is followed by a faint scuffle, a second voice hissing “shush!” and a plaintive “Ow! Those are my ribs!” _

Tony just beams brightly into the camera. “FRIDAY has received instructions to tally everyone’s cursing over the weekend, and you are responsible for paying for each and every infraction.”

_ Off-camera, the first voice mutters, “There goes that fucking paycheck.” _

Tony’s smile widens into a grin. “Including your own. Laura may not think it’s a pay-to-swear service, but these are ransom demands after all. They’re supposed to be unreasonable and harsh.

“Natasha Romanoff, I’m supposed to read off this thing where they demand you put on a unitard and a tutu and dance to  _ Dance of the Swans  _ from Swan Lake, but I understand you’ll be very busy with some negotiations on behalf of the CEO of Stark Industries, so I’m just gonna tell them that box is checked off already. Mostly because you terrify me and I’d rather keep all my body parts intact. You’re definitely the girl who shoots the messenger before she goes to hunt down the message issuer to shoot them too.

“Thor, my captors are aware of your secret library of trashy romance novels, and they think it’s fitting that you contract a photographer to recreate as many of those covers as you can manage by Monday. A generous budget and the contents of Stark Warehouse Number 54234 have been provided for this event. That’s where Dad stashed all the costumes and props when he shut down the movie studio portion of the Stark brand back in the 80s. Your, ah, female partner for these shoots is, of course, entirely your call, but Jane might not be up for some of them. Darcy, I can almost guarantee, will be. I’m counting on you here, buddy.

“Peter Parker… Top of Stark Tower, costume, Iron Man t-shirt, best selfie you can manage. Instagram that ASAP. And I’ve seen your portfolio. I know what kind of work you’re capable of it. Don’t half-ass it.

He smiles lazily, charmingly into the camera. “So that’s it. I’m alive, I’m well, and I’m completely at the mercy of my captors until these demands, and possibly others if these ones prove too easy to fulfil and they have to kill time until Monday night, are met in full. The clock starts now. Don’t hurry or anything. I don’t know what will happen to me if these demands aren’t met, but I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

_ Cut to black. Fade in on a digital time readout flipping over to 00:60:00:00, then 00:59:59:59. _


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was gonna hold the whole thing til I was finished, but then I attended my advisement session at school today. Classes start tomorrow, and there's gonna be a shitload of projects due in the next six weeks of this very truncated spring semester. So I'm going back to what I did with CP, and posting chapters as I get them so y'all aren't waiting weeks and weeks for the finished thing. It seemed to work well for both you and for me. 
> 
> Cheers! :)

_Before there's a ransom demand, there is a kidnapping_

**oOoOoOo**

_Thursday night_

Laura stares in dismay at the screen where Tony's face is displayed in real time live broadcast, grimacing guiltily at her. “Aw, come on, sweetheart,” he says softly, and his eyes do that corner crinkle thing they do when he's especially worried or apologetic. “Don't look like I just canceled Christmas. It's just this weekend.”

Laura clears her throat, shakes her head. “And it was last weekend too,” she counters, and can't help the note of distress in her voice. “We've haven't seen you for the last two weeks at all, and barely spent time together the two weeks before that.” She gives into the urge to run her fingers over the lines of his face on the screen. “We miss you.”

Tony's eyes soften and, on his side of the screen, he touches her display. “I miss you too,” he says and sighs. “I promise, sweetheart, as soon as I'm done with the arrangements for the Expo, I'm going to book us all in somewhere extravagant and sinfully luxurious, where the kids can have fun at a theme park and we can have the vacation we deserve. How's that sound?”

“Like heaven,” Laura admits, and knows that Tony's doing the best he can do, just like they all are, but she's not going to hold her breath at this weekend being the last Tony's going to end up dedicating to the finer details of the upcoming Stark Expo. “Are you sure you can’t get away?”

Tony sighs. “I want nothing more,” he says. “I just can’t see how I can make it happen. Pepper’s still on vacation, and I’m stuck dealing with her representative, who makes Fury look like a hug-addicted teddy bear. Half the time, I wonder if she’s arguing every little thing she can just to hold me hostage.”

Laura bites her lip to repress a sigh, then nods reluctantly. “I understand, Tony,” she says. “I’ll let you get back to work. I’ve got some things I need to take care. Call us later?”

“Of course I will. Gotta read Lila’s bedtime story, after all.” Tony’s smile, bright and easy, falters then. “Hey. You know I love you, right?”

“I know,” she says, and the smile she gives him is soft and genuine. “I love you too. Come home soon.”

“I’ll do my best, I promise.” He hesitates, his eyebrows furrow uncertainly, and he opens his mouth like he’s about to speak. Then he sighs, closes his mouth again and kills the feed, leaving a fading image of his uncertainty lingering on Laura’s screen.

Laura sighs heavily, turns off the monitor, and flops backwards in the bed with her arm over her eyes. So much for the wear-sexy-lingerie approach, because not once in that conversation had she found even a hint of a good opportunity to start pulling her clothes off. She lifts her head and looks down at herself critically, then rolls her eyes. Three weeks of fitness training with Natasha hasn’t even begun to melt ten years of baby fat and farm-fresh dinners off her body. Who does she think she’s fooling anyway?

At least he’s still telling her he loves her. Who knows what he’d have said if she started stripping for him?

It isn’t often she gives into these kinds of thoughts, because insecure is something she’s rarely been in her life. She rolls over onto her stomach and pillows her cheek on her crossed forearms, deciding to just chalk it up to the fact that she misses Tony’s steady, reliable presence in her life.

It’s a little frightening how readily she’s come to rely on him.

She heaves a heavy sigh and flips onto her stomach, pulling a pillow beneath her chin and staring at the headboard in dissatisfaction. She should be used to her partners not being around, she thinks. Between Clint, with his SHIELD ops and then Avenging, and Phil, never the most reliable for mostly the same reasons, she became accustomed to video conferences and stolen moments. Maybe she’s spoiled with all the attention recently, the immediacy of reaching for one of them and finding them there.

Maybe she has something better now, and it’s more difficult to settle for less.  

When she finds herself reaching for the photo of all three of them she keeps on the bedside table, it’s like a shock to the system, forces a jump to a different track and she laughs a little at her own ridiculousness. She’s not a teenager with her first crush here, so she should be beyond this sort of moody wallowing by now.

Whether or not she is, however, is a fact made moot by the unmistakeable sound of her kids thundering in through the front door. She groans softly, but shoves herself to her feet in time to hear Lila shrieking for Cooper to give her back her sketchbook, and Cooper laughing mockingly. She sighs and rolls her eyes, but shakes the moodiness off and squares her shoulders, the strides out of her bedroom with a barked “Cooper Francis Barton! You give your sister back her things right now!”

Time to be a mom. She'll find time to be a sad housewife later.

**oOoOoOo**

It also doesn't help, it really doesn't, that she hasn't had sex since the last time Tony was in bed with them. She doubts Tony would mind if they did, but it doesn't feel right without him. She knows Clint feels the same way, since he only makes a perfunctory attempt at seducing her before sighing and sprawling onto his pillow, arm slung across her waist.

“I miss Tony,” she says after a while, after the lights have dimmed and the house has settled into silence.

“Hmph,” Clint snorts, drags his face out of the pillow, and his eyes gleam in the darkness beside her. “Yeah, me too. Bed’s too damn big without him anymore.”

She shifts until she's fully on her side, facing him, and bites her lip. “I called him today.”

He grins. “Izzat why you were wearing the slinky red bra? And that didn't bring him home? He needs his eyesight checked. That would have brought me back from the _dead_.”

“He didn't get to see it,” she says grumpily, and burrows aggressively into her pillow. “Maybe it wouldn't have helped.”

There's a moment of silence and then Clint's up on his elbow, flicking on the nightlight and turning back to her to stare incredulously. “You've lost me.”

She sighs, knows she's being ridiculous, but decides to say it anyway. “Maybe you're not the one I lost. Maybe he's lost interest in me.”

Clint blinks and stares for another minute, and then starts laughing. And laughing. And laughing, as he tucks his arm under her and hauls her onto his chest. “You're adorable,” he chuckles. “Adorable and dumb. If Tony lost interest, do you think _this_ would be the way he tells you?”

“Maybe,” she says, still grumbling. “It's not nice to laugh at someone's insecurities, Clint.”

He kisses her nose, then her forehead and temple. “I know,” he says. “You're right. I'm sorry. I miss him too, sweetheart. I really do. He always looks so fucking tired and out of it when we call.”

“We should do something,” she says, and snuggles into Clint’s warm solidity.

“Yes, we should. Anything in particular you have in mind?”

Laura chews on her lip, and pulls away enough to look her husband dead in the eyes. “Maybe,” she says after a moment, and is heartened by the way he grins, sudden and bright. “It’s kind of drastic.”

Clint snorts. “Honey, drastic is kinda what I do for a goddamn living.”

She considers some more. “Can you scrounge up some backup?”

He shrugs. “Nat’s usually up for anything. She’ll probably laugh at me a whole lot first, and that ‘it isn’t nice to laugh at someone’s insecurities’ isn’t going to work on her. But yes. I can scrounge discreet, professional, experienced backup. Now, if you need me to, in fact.”

Laura shakes her head. “No,” she says, firm and decisive. “No, it can wait until the morning. I want to sleep on it first.”

“God, you’re hot when you’re scheming,” Clint says and rolls onto his back, dragging her with him until she’s straddling him. He inhales sharply, runs his hands suggestively up her back, and she shivers, bites her lip to repress the moan at the feel of him hardening between her legs. “Wanna put sleep off another half hour or so?”

“Mmmfh,” she says, digs her nails into his chest, loves the way he squirms a little. “What about Tony?”

“What about him?” he says, slightly strangled. “You and me tonight, you and him another night, me and him a third night. I have zero problems with any of this, and I suspect he will too.”

“Maybe we should call him,” she says breathlessly, and shifts her hips just a little until he’s hissing swear words and clutching her shoulders with tight fingers. “Maybe see if he’s…. Ooh. If he’s okay with all this. Maybe he could watch. See what he’s missing.”

“Woman,” Clint growls, and flips them both, “you are filthy and I love you more than life.”

It’s fast and rough, the kind of sex Laura usually likes as an appetizer before a marathon of orgasms, and she feels a little bad about the perfect imprint of her dental work she leaves in Clint’s shoulder, but she goes to sleep with a smile on her face and sleeps solidly for the first night in nearly a month.

**oOoOoOo**

_Friday morning_

Tony’s got pictures of his kids and his partners on his desk now, candid moments captured and framed so he can display them like any other proud family man, but eventually, as the Stark Expo ‘18 run date starts drawing nearer and nearer, the photos are all he’s seeing of his family, and it’s not even close to enough for him.

And to top it all off, this is the week Pepper’s chosen to take her annual vacation, leaving her curmudgeonly assistant Lydia in charge of liaising with Tony’s office, which means it takes five times as long as it should to submit and get approval for the Expo’s events.

“You are aware,” he says, with greater patience than he ever thought he’d be capable of producing, “that every time your office quibbles over some tiny detail about the presentation order or the security arrangements, it costs my people bare minimum six hours lost time with their families, yes?”

If Lydia has a sense of either humor or compassion, Tony's yet to see evidence of it in all their many, tiresome conversations. “Well, Mr. Stark,” she says, disapproving and stern, “perhaps upper management with Stark Industries isn't the area most suited to those with family priorities. But that is neither here nor there at the moment. If I could call your attention to…”

She only gets that far because that's how long it takes for Tony to pick his jaw up off the floor. “Whoa, hold on. Back up a second. Did I just hear you say that Stark Industries should not offer senior positions to employees with families?”

“I said no such thing, Mr. Stark,” Lydia says primly, but she doesn't meet Tony's eyes and there's a flush to her face that Tony finds equally suspicious. “And I will point out that, right now, you are the one causing the delays by creating conflict where none should exist. To move on from this topic, please note the…”

“No.” Tony’s on his feet and rounding the desk before the shock of being cut off a second time can register on her face. “No, we’re going to stay right where we are with you openly advocating for discrimination against SI employees with families. Because what the hell, lady?”

Just as he’s debating exactly how hard it would be to reach through the monitor and shake Lydia until basic human decency rattles into her skull, the window across the room shatters, and he ducks instinctively. He comes back up into a defensive crouch as two intruders jump in through the broken window from an aerial vehicle under stealth.

It takes him a long moment to recognize the two would-be assailants, but once he does, he has a hard time keeping the smirk under wraps. He's been kidnapped before. The majority of his drug-and-party-blurred teenage years notwithstanding, he can't remember a time concern over abduction wasn't a constant presence in the back of his head. Said concerns were not without merit either: in the last ten years alone, he's been an unwilling guest of any number of slimeball groups and one note villains looking to make their mark on Stark Industries or the Avengers.

He never thought the next successful abduction would come from one of his own. In hindsight, he knows he should have seen it coming.

He looks them up and down as they approach him, notes the black leather infiltration suits that cover them top to bottom, except for a band across their eyes where some sort of goggles or glasses should go and thinks, _At least they tried a little_. He meets Natasha’s amused eyes and then Clint’s, and rolls his own. He should fend them off, tell them, _nope, no kidnappings today thank you, I'm too busy._ But that last shred of responsibility he's been clinging to like a life preserver dissolves under the screaming impulse to roll with it and get the _fuck_ out of the building for the first time in two weeks.  

“Just a second,” he mutters, and turns back to the video call with Lydia. “I’m afraid we’ll have to reschedule this meeting,” he says, with his widest, most pleasant business-bland smile. “I’m being abducted from my office, so I have to cut this short. If you haven’t heard from me by Monday, chances are my abductors have taken my life or something equally dramatic, so I’ll have an associate of mine, Natalie Rushman, take over from here.”

“Oh, you will, will you?” Natasha mutters behind him, and he waves her impatiently into quiet again.

“Have a good weekend, Ms. Hanover,” he says, and cuts the feed. “And yes,” he says and holds out his hands for the zip tie Clint’s holding. “I will. She just suggested families have no business in my business, so I fully expect Ms. Rushman to eat her alive on Monday. Now,” and he waggles his hands at them, “get with the kidnapping before someone has the bright idea to burst in here and try to save me.”

“I can't tell if you wanting to be kidnapped is hotter than dragging you out kicking and screaming,” Clint says, and slides the plastic cuffs over Tony's wrists. Tony makes a muffled noise as Clint cinches him tight, and Clint groans in reply. “Whatever. I don't care. This is awesome just like it is.”

“If I'd known this was a thing, Katniss,” Tony says, breathless and rough, “I'd have had you kidnap me ages ago.”

He makes another noise deep in the back of his throat at the sweep of Clint's fingers between the plastic cuff and his wrist. “Not too tight?” he murmurs in Tony's ear. “No pins and needles, numbness?”

“No,” he replies, licks dry lips, watches Clint's eyes flick down to his mouth and darken rapidly.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Natasha says in disgust, and goes back out onto the balcony to leap into the open cargo hold of the stealthed quinjet. “It's bad enough I have to see your post coital smirks every morning at breakfast. I'd really like to not see the foreplay as well.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Safe, sane, consensual. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Tony’s back hits the quinjet wall as Clint pulls him into it, and the ramp door has barely closed before Clint’s on him like a man possessed. He hauls the balaclava over his head, and Tony has just enough time to see his flushed face, and wildly mussed hair and groin-tightening grin before there’s no space between their bodies, and Clint’s doing his best to climb down Tony’s throat.

There’s nothing gentle or playful about the way Clint’s kissing him now, and Tony tries to reach forward, bring his arms around Clint, but is reminded abruptly that his hands are restrained behind him when all the effort does is launch him off the wall.

Clint spins gracefully as Tony surges forward and, without so much as a slight pause in his plunder of Tony's mouth, slams him up against the opposite wall and cups his hand hard around Tony’s balls, through the double layer of his slacks and his boxers.

With a stuttered, startled, embarrassingly loud moan, Tony goes from half-hard to rock hard in an instant, and whatever part of him was enjoying the struggle goes pliant and unresisting just as quickly. He’s gone long stretches without sex before. Two weeks is an eyeblink in the grand scheme of things. He shouldn’t be this horny, this ready to come just from a few rough strokes through his clothes and a couple of hard kisses.

But time doesn’t seem to matter with his partners, because a day feels like a year, and two weeks is a goddamn lifetime, and Clint’s groaning and panting into his mouth, grinding against his hip with an erection so hard it’s probably going to leave bruises, and goddamn, he’s so stupid in love with this man it’s like an addiction he never wants to get rid of and jesus fucking christ, it’s been thirty seconds, can’t be more than thirty seconds, and his balls are tightening, pressure’s building, and he’s gonna fucking come in his pants like he’s a gangly fourteen-year-old again and….

_“Barton! Get your fucking hands off him! We’re on a job!”_

And Clint’s hand drops away from Tony’s dick the second Natasha’s voice cracks like a whip from the cockpit of the quinjet, and Tony protests with a noise that’s half whimper and half scream, muffled by the press of Clint’s mouth against his, because he’s _so fucking close, holy shit,_ and his hands are tied behind him so he can’t finish the job himself, and _jesus fucking christ are they trying to kill him?_

He whines, tries to press forward, grind himself off on Clint’s leg or belly or whatever he can reach, but Clint just chuckles, rough and hoarse, deliberately keeping distance so Tony _can’t, goddamn the evil prick,_ and frames Tony’s face with both hands and slowing his kiss, deepening his kiss, until Tony’s nerves stop screaming and he’s less inclined to bend over and beg to be fucked and more inclined to curl up in bed and let his hands lazily roam.

He is mollified somewhat by the fact that Clint’s breathing like he’s halfway recovered from running a marathon, and there’s absolutely no hiding the erection, not in a suit that tight and fitted. But his eyes are dancing and his grin is his usual shit-eating one. “Hi babe,” he says. “I missed you.”

“You’re an asshole,” he grumbles, but with no real heat, and Clint smirks some more.

“Yeah,” he says, and gently guides Tony back over to the seats and sits him down. “But you love me anyway.”

From this angle, Tony has a better view of Natasha, at the pilot’s control panel. She’s looking back over her shoulder at them, and there’s a dangerous glint in her eye, but Tony thinks she looks at least a little amused. If she wasn’t, he thinks, they’d both probably be unconscious already. “If I have to come back there, Barton, I’m going to be dropping off _two_ hog-tied hostages to the client. You may think this is all fun and games, but I signed on to do a job, and I’m going to do it properly, with or without you.”

“You really are the world’s most gigantic buzzkill, Nat,” Clint says conversationally, as he finishes buckling Tony into the safety harness. “Remind me why I work with you again?”

“Because,” she says with an exasperated roll of her eyes, “I’m the only SHIELD agent who didn’t try to either nudge you off a cliff or leave you for foreign law enforcement to lock in a dark cell where you can’t chatter at me anymore.”

“You do talk a lot,” Tony adds, and does his best to look utterly innocent when Clint shoots him a dirty look. “And coming from me? King of inane verbal diarrhea? That’s _really_ saying something.”

“Hostages don’t get to talk on this plane,” Clint says with a warning scowl that does nothing to intimidate and everything to turn Tony on again. “So shut it or I’ll find something to gag you with.”

Tony shudders involuntarily, and grins just a little at the astonishment that shoots across Clint’s face at his reaction to the threat. “Is that what I am?” he asks, sweet as sin. “A hostage? Is this the point where you put a bag over my head?”

Clint's grin is sudden and wicked. “Is that a thing? I can arrange that if it's a thing.”

“I refuse to be kidnapped half-assedly,” Tony replies archly. “So yes. That's a thing.”

“We're on a clock, Barton,” Natasha says warningly. “And there's a talk you're supposed to have first, isn't there?”

“Buzzkill,”Clint retorts, and then sits down beside Tony and turns his balaclava over in his hands. “So,” he starts, and stares at his hands. “About this kidnapping.”

Tony arches an eyebrow. “Yes?”

Clint sighs heavily. “We haven't had a serious kink talk yet,” he says quietly. “You wanna have part of it now?”

Both of Tony's eyebrows shoot into his hairline, but the urge to say something snide and witty dies blessedly quick. He's totally getting the hang of this adulting thing. He thinks. “If it's on the table,” he says, choosing his words with deliberation, “then yes, I believe we should have whatever part we need to. I would like to say,” he adds with a smirk when Clint opens his mouth to reply, “that you and I will have a completely different conversation later, full of indignant words like _why am I only now being informed this is a possibility_ and maybe some pointed questions about where you keep your sex dungeon.”

In the cockpit, Natasha snorts a laugh, while Clint gives him a withering look. “In the closet,” he says flatly. “In a locked box. Like normal people. Not everyone has a couple billion dollars and a hundred floors in the middle of Manhattan to indulge their deviance, Tony.”

“Finally,” he says and waggles his eyebrows suggestively with a salacious grin. “Something I can bring to the relationship.”

“Yes,” Clint says dryly and leans back against the bulkhead of the quinjet. “Our lives are now complete since we gained access to the super secret playroom and Stark Tower. However did we get by before you?”

“Poorly, I imagine.” He tilts his head and shifts as best he can so he's not killing his circulation by sitting on his bound hands. “So this talk…”

“There are actually two,” Clint replies. “The first one is where we have a preliminary conversation about limits and comfort zones and the general plan for the next three days. The second, well, that's just me talking and you having to listen, and depends entirely on how the first talk goes.”

Comprehension blooms abruptly, and Tony smiles broadly, because now that he knows exactly what he's being asked for, he knows exactly what to say. He's also fairly confident that nothing they want will be outside his tolerance, and nothing he wants will be outside theirs. “No pain for pain's sake,” he says. “No humiliation at all, because I've had more than enough of that in my life in the non-fun ways to completely kill any enjoyment I used to get out of it. No permanent damage. And I don't crawl on my hands and knees for anyone. Those are my hard limits. Anything else is a matter of degrees and context.”

“Awesome,” Clint murmurs, and looks Tony up and down. “The client,” he continues with a shit-eating smirk, and there’s only one person he could logically mean (not that Tony didn’t think Laura had something to do with this kidnapping thing to begin with), “has planned for a weekend where they’d like to tie you to the bed in an undisclosed location and use you in all sorts of interesting ways for the next few days.”

Tony bites back an eager whimper, swallows it down, because it’s not yet time to immerse himself in all that. “Sounds good,” he says, a little hoarsely. “Anything specific you need to ask?”

“There was some mention of blindfolds, gags, ear plugs or headphones.”

Tony swallows again. “Okay with me.”

“Seeing what kind of sensory stimulation gets which kind of response. Cold, heat, talk, touch, that kind of thing. A lot of toys, honestly. You wouldn’t believe how many.”

And again, with a clearing of his throat this time. “Good times had by all,” he croaks.

Clint’s grin gets a little wider, a little darker. A lot hotter, and Tony’s suddenly wishing he had the ability to fan himself or get a cold drink. “Orgasm control, denial and delay, too,” Clint adds cheerfully. “I should probably mention that the client is in a definite mood for taking charge and having their way. They may, in fact, ask for you to worship them at some point. I can tell you from experience that it’s a very likely scenario.”

Never in a million years would Tony have ever pegged Laura as a Domme, or even really interested in any aspect of the lifestyle. Clint maybe, if he stretched his imagination to picture his inability to shut up as anything but a smart mouth asking to be disciplined, but not Laura. Now that he’s been enlightened, Jesus fucking Christ on a pogo stick, he is so utterly, completely grateful for the partners in his life. And he may be just a little more in love with them both than he was this morning.

“When do we start?” is what comes out of his mouth, breathy and eager.

“Pick a safe word,” Clint says, and pulls a strip of black cloth out of his pocket which Tony just knows is going to end up over his eyes, “and remember that second talk I mentioned? The one where I talk and you have to listen?”

“Yes,” he says, licks his lips, and sucks in a long, quiet breath. “I prefer ‘mango’.”

“Good choice.” And then Clint’s hands are rough, but careful, tying the cloth around Tony’s eyes and tucking the ends into his mouth in simulation of a gag, but completely within Tony’s ability to spit out. “Now I talk,” he continues, right in Tony's ear, rough and low, “and you have to hear all about how I fucked your wife last night while you weren’t there to satisfy her.”

There’s a momentary pause, like Clint’s waiting for Tony to maybe tap out already, and Tony thinks it’s because maybe it’s edging into humiliation territory, but he’s kinda stuck in a sort of wonder on the word “wife”, reeling in the amazement of hearing it come so readily from the person actually married to Laura, so all he does is make a muffled, needy noise and close his eyes behind the blindfold to better picture whatever image Clint’s going to paint for him.

**oOoOoOo**

Maybe it's a career that spent too much time partnering with Natasha, whose moral compass is sketchy on the best of days, but Clint really enjoys getting to play the bad guy when an op calls for it. It may not be exactly the situation that he's used to needing it, but he's nothing if not adaptable and, if he's honest, this is the most fun he's ever had doing it.

When Laura proposed a literal abduction of their erstwhile partner to him early this morning, he'd been game for it, but hadn't been able to shake the nagging sense that it had humongous potential to blow up in their faces. Thank God Tony is just as weird and twisted as Clint is, is all he's gonna say, because he's never been quite so turned on and _not_ hellbent on trying to strip his partner in the most efficient way in order to be fucking them as soon as possible.

There's something infinitely more satisfying about dusting off his very best amoral mercenary mindset when the object of the op is so fucking into it.

And _holy shit,_ is Tony ever into it.

A whole new universe of possibilities opens in Clint's mind, entire galaxies populated with all of Clint's hottest fantasies, that now have real, genuine potential to become reality. It's a good thing Natasha agreed to help him out on this, because she's the only reason he doesn't have Tony naked and moaning right now.

Because as goddamn turned on as he is right now, not even the guilt of ruining all of Laura's careful planning would stop him from trying to fuck Tony through the bulkhead as fast and as hard as he can.

He catches Natasha's glance as she looks over her shoulder, and shoots her a smug grin as he spots the flush of color high in her cheeks, the telltale glitter in her eyes. Most people don't understand their relationship and never will, but he knows Natasha's proclivities almost as well as he knows his own. She might have less than zero sexual interest in him, Laura or Tony, but she has a definite weakness for watching other people playing. He just hopes she's got a date scheduled soon, because with the signs he's reading in her body language, she's going to be an unholy terror to whoever crosses her path until she gets laid.

She narrows her eyes at him, draws a finger slow and threatening across her throat, but that just makes him grin wider.

The only sound, beyond the hum of the engines and quiet chirping of the instrumentation, is Tony's breathing, loud and ragged past the pseudo-gag he pushed between Tony's teeth. He's gotten pretty good at reading Tony's moods over the last few months, the specific details that betray whatever he's feeling, whether he wants anyone to notice it or not, and right now, Tony's so tense and hyperaware, turning his head from side to side at the silence, straining for the slightest sound, Clint has a momentary pang of discomfort, because it’s just for a second hard to tell if he's waiting for more play, or if he's borderline to a panic attack.

Then Tony makes a noise, raw and guttural, in the back of his throat, and Clint closes his eyes against the surge of desire that slams into his gut. Yeah, okay. There's no mistaking _that_ for anything but what it is, and he leans forward to speak into Tony's ear again.

“Thing is,” he says, low and husky and dark, watches Tony jerk in response to the wash of Clint's breath across his neck, listens to his sharp, quick inhale, “she's missed you so much, she hasn't as much as touched herself since the last time you were together. Do you have any idea what that does to her? I do.”

A whimper rattles, nasal and breathy, from Tony's throat, and Clint curls his hands into fists, to remind himself not to touch. He takes a shuddering breath, squeezes his eyes shut and swallows hard. “A day or two without an orgasm and she's a little cranky, sure. A week? She's like a dragon with a sore tooth, snarling and spitting fire. Two weeks? Christ, you're lucky if your dick is in one piece by the time she's done satisfying herself with it.”

Something low and nearly inhuman grunts out of Tony, and he strains, trying to bring his hands to the front. Clint watches him struggle, and clears his throat a couple of times, wishes it was in character to fan at himself, because his body is on fire. They can't be too far from where they're going now, so he keeps reminding himself to have patience.

“She wanted to video conference you,” he says, drops his voice down another half octave and savors like crazy the way Tony moans and squirms. “She wanted you to see her riding my cock and screaming your name. Wanted you to see what you were missing. God,” he says, thickly, nearly a mumble. “She was so wet and eager for it. I was barely in her before she was coming, but she didn’t want me to stop. She just kept telling me to fuck her faster, harder.”

Tony groans, like he's in pain, and shudders hard, just like he does when he's riding the edge of orgasm, waiting to tip on over it. It takes everything Clint has to keep his hands, mouth and dick to himself, because the thought of him being able to just _talk_ Tony into coming is _doing things_ to his self control.

“Almost at the drop point,” Natasha says suddenly, and then clears her throat, he assumes to get rid of the husky, smoky tones in her voice. “Get the package ready.”

He chokes on a snort of humor. “Any readier, and he'd be in no condition to meet the client,” he says. Then, while Natasha is distracted with landing the quinjet smoothly, he risks leaning in and whispering, “Now you understand just what kind of mood she's in, Tony. What she did to me last night? Only a taste of what she plans to do to you.”

“I'll die a very satisfied death,” Tony says faintly, raggedly, after spitting the cloth out of his mouth. He grins and, though he’s still blindfolded, he turns to face Clint with unerring accuracy. “Rest assured I'll do my very best to take you both with me.”

Clint closes his eyes and lets himself break character just long enough to lean his forehead briefly against Tony's, frame his face between his hands. “I really have missed you, Tin Man,” he says, quiet but fervent. “This is fun and all, a lot of fucking fun, but it shouldn't have to come to kidnapping to get time alone with you.”

In response, Tony nudges in and kisses him, slow and sweet. “ I know,” he replies, after they break for air. “I'm sorry. I'll try to be more considerate. Work is entirely unpredictable, though, Clint. I can't guarantee anything.”

“You're plenty considerate, Tony. Things come up all the time. We get that.” He sighs, closes his eyes, brushes his thumbs across Tony's cheekbones.  “Just maybe try to come home on the weekends or something?”

“I can do that,” Tony says with a smile. “Though I can't really say I mind the somewhat unconventional method by which you two chose to bring it up.”

Clint smirks, pulls back as Natasha sets the quinjet down light as a feather, and rummages in one of the bags stored in the wall cubbies. “She bit me last night. Left her teeth imprinted in my shoulder, babe. They’re still there almost fourteen hours later.  I wouldn't make any decisions about regrets just yet.”

He probably shouldn't enjoy Tony's flicker of dismay and sudden gulp this much, but the last few weeks without so much as five minutes with his whole family have been no picnic for him either. He's going to let himself relish it just a little. He's already going to end up in hell, so abstaining isn't going to tip him back into the queue for heaven.

All of his friends are in the same line for the hereafter anyway. No sense in not enjoying the ride there.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These three and their feels, I swear.

For all that Laura’s been married to a government spy and assassin for years, for all she herself was a government agent for years before that, she’s never actually gone about the hiring of a professional in order to obtain their specialized skills for personal gain. She knows how it’s done, in theory, but her job description had never included making contact with those kinds of assets or handling those kinds of assignments.

She’s a little amused to think that only in retirement does she finally get the black ops experience she never did as a sanctioned agent.

It isn’t too onerous a process, and Natasha’s fee for taking the job is surprisingly reasonable, so all that’s left for Laura to do once Natasha and Clint depart on their mission is to make sure the kids are settled away with Scott and Hope, get Natasha’s payment together, then pack the car with supplies and make the drive up to the farmhouse to open it up for the weekend.

By the time she arrives at the farm, she’s worked herself into a bundle of nerves, second-guessing every decision she’s made. It’s not like her to be so uncertain of herself, and it makes her impatient and irritable until she can finally shake herself out of it. She doesn’t know what the hell is wrong with her lately, but this is not the mindset she wants to go into this weekend in.

Thankfully, the more she prepares, the easier it is to shed the moodiness, and soon enough she’s humming happily as she changes the sheets on the bed, stocks the refrigerator and arranges things to her liking. By the time she hears the hiss-rumble of a quinjet engine on approach, she’s all but forgotten her early-morning funk and finds herself smiling eagerly as she retrieves the payment from storage.

She checks herself over one more time in the mirror over the fireplace, turning this way and that to make sure everything is tucked in, zipped up and hugging curves that need to be hugged. One last time, one last pang of insecurity, she debates slipping into something more sophisticated, slinky and sexy, but remembers how handsy Tony gets with her ass in these jeans, how he likes running his fingers through her loose hair, and firmly tells herself to stop overthinking it. 

The quinjet’s settling in the grassy patch beside the driveway when she exits the farmhouse, and her stomach flutters in a mix of nerves and arousal when the back opens and Natasha emerges, shucking her gloves and pulling the zipper of her tight tactical suit to loosen it around her throat. She meets Laura halfway, eyeing the cooler Laura’s carrying with clear greed in her eyes. “Job’s done,” she says, pulling her eyes reluctantly to Laura’s. 

Laura clears her throat, ignores the pull and throb in her belly as Clint appears on the ramp of the quinjet, one hand on Tony’s shoulder to lead him out. It shouldn’t be so appealing that Tony has a bag over his head, should it? “Were there any difficulties?” she asks politely. 

Natasha snorts, shoots a look over her shoulder. “I forgot my cattle prod,” she says. “My partner had some issues keeping his hands to himself. A stronger incentive to be professional probably would have come in handy, but the job itself went fine. I’d like my payment now, please.”

Laura arches an eyebrow at the outstretched, wiggling fingers Natasha’s pointing at her, then lifts the cooler and offers it out. “Two batches of Barton special brownies, with melted caramel and walnuts, and a pint of homemade vanilla ice cream. As we agreed. You’re waiting for the ransom demands?”

“Yes,” Natasha says impatiently, all but snatches the cooler out of Laura’s hands and cracks the lid. “Ooh yeah, that’s the good stuff right there.”

“I left two wrapped separately in wax paper on the top for you,” Laura replies, but her eyes are all for her boys, and her hands twitch at her sides as she stops herself from reaching for them. “Thought you might want a snack for the flight back.”

“Best client ever,” Natasha says with a rare, wide smile, and reaches out to give Laura a hug. “I’ll be on the quinjet waiting for the package you need delivered,” she says into Laura’s ear, then drops her voice a few decibels and adds, “If what I saw on the flight up is any indication, you’re in for a very good weekend.”

“That’s the plan,” Laura replies, a trifle breathless, and tightens her hug briefly. “Thank you so much for doing this for me.”

“Anytime. As long as you make me brownies.” With a parting squeeze, Natasha disengages from Laura and heads back to the quinjet, already rummaging in the cooler. As she passes Clint and Tony, Clint holds his hand out sideways, and Natasha gives him a perfunctory high-five. 

“One billionaire lover, as promised,” Clint says cheerfully, halting in front of Laura and pulling the bag off Tony’s head with a flourish. “What do you think we should do with him?”

Laura drinks in the sight of Tony, smiling ruefully through his makeshift gag, and lifts her hands to frame his face. “Remind him of his place,” she says, has to clear her throat to shed the thick emotion choking her as she pulls the cloth away from his mouth. “All weekend if we have to. You have anything to say for yourself before we begin?” 

Tony’s smile widens into a playful grin. “I don’t suppose begging for mercy would do me any good.”

“No,” Laura says, loops her hands around the back of his neck and hauls him down into kissing range, so she can comfortably assault his mouth until he’s moaning and pressing against her and Clint has to yank him back. “No mercy,” Laura gasps, and drags her hands away from him with much effort. 

Tony, flushed and mussed and grinning, follows her back down, kisses her firm and sweet. “Want me to beg anyway?” he murmurs against her mouth. “Is that a thing?”

“That is definitely a thing, Tin Man,” Clint says with glee, and manhandles him into the house while Laura catches her breath. 

**oOoOoOo**

Tony has died and gone to heaven, as far as he's concerned. Sure, his hands are still tied behind him and he's about to give a list of ransom demands to a camera, but right now, he's finding it hard to care. Laura's in his lap, straddling him on the chair, grinding into him and licking into his mouth with her hands tight in his hair. The dull ache in his scalp from how hard she’s balled his hair between her fingers runs as a sweet, sharp counterpoint to the joy thrumming through his limbs and singing in his veins.

“Missed you,” she rasps harshly, using her hands to pull his hair back, pulling his head back against the top rail of the chair’s backrest, and he barely has time to suck in a gasping breath before she’s biting and sucking her way down the side of his throat. “Missed you so much, Tony.” 

Goddammit, he’s stupidly in love with this woman, he thinks hazily, muffling a nasally moan when her teeth scrape a sensitive spot. And that man, he amends a moment later, as Clint’s hands slide from his temples to cup his cheeks for a lazy, upside down exploration of his mouth, which Tony is more than happy to endorse. 

Far too soon for his liking, Laura slides off his lap after another hard, lingering plunder of his mouth and an almost desperate nuzzle into his neck. “I love you,” she says, soft and fervent, and Tony has to swallow hard to keep the welling emotions from balling up in his throat. 

“I love you too,” he says, and smiles at her. He wonders when it’ll stop feeling wondrous and awe-inspiring and humbling at the way her face lights up with soft amazement and joy. He hopes it never does. 

He grunts an _oof_ in the next moment, as Clint claims the spot on his lap Laura just vacated, slides his arms over Tony’s shoulders and links his fingers together on “the back of Tony’s neck. “Told you she was in a mood,” he says, eyes crinkling in amusement. “I can’t guarantee you’ll survive this weekend.”

“Everybody has to go sometime,” he says with a smile and a shrug. “At least this way I'll die happy.”

“No dying,” Laura says firmly over her shoulder, as she sets up a tripod and slides a small digital camera onto it. “That’s a rule.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Tony says with a smirk. “I’ll do my very best to avoid it.”

Clint tilts his head and eyes him curiously. “You doing okay with all this, babe?”

Tony blinks. What is he… oh. Right. He’s done this a time or two before, in far less than friendly circumstances. “I’m fine,” he says with a faint smile. “I’m perfectly willing to let you hold me captive until your demands are met. One might say even eager.”

His face is abruptly, gently framed by Clint’s hands as Clint holds him still, pins him with a frown, eyes him suspiciously. “It starts bringing anything back to you, I want you to say something.” 

He scoffs, rolls his eyes. “You worry too much, Barton.”

“You don’t worry enough about the shit that damages you,” Clint shoots back. “So it’s my job. You might be able to bullshit Laura, Tony, but I’m here too, and I’ve been through shit like that myself. I know what it’s like. You can’t bullshit me.”

He stills, stares up, feels the smirk fade from his mouth. This is novel. And oddly touching. “Alright,” he says quietly. “I promise.”

Clint’s hands drop away from his cheeks, rest on his shoulders and link again at the back of his neck. “Good. Glad that’s settled.”

Tony arches a skeptical eyebrow, because it’s rare that people don’t argue the point to death, long after he’s agreed. “Just like that?”

Clint gives him an unimpressed eyebrow right back. “What, you want me to nag you until you swear half a dozen more times? I could do that, sure, but I don’t get any enjoyment out of being that kind of condescending asshole. You’re not a fucking child who needs to be controlled, Tony.” His head tilts slightly as his eyes soften at the corners. “Neither of us is gonna get off on me humiliating you, so yeah. Just like that. I love you, dumbass. You say you promise, that’s good enough for me.” 

It hits him like a runaway Hulk, sideways and completely unexpected, and he finds himself staring wordlessly up at Clint, some deep and yawning emotion opening within him. He opens his mouth to reply, but nothing comes out. No wit, no snark, no snappy one-liner. No Tonyism is ready on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he closes his mouth, swallows hard, and tries to ignore the burn and shimmer of his eyes. 

Clint watches him carefully, a faint smile playing around the corners of his mouth, and seems to understand what’s going through Tony’s head even if Tony himself doesn’t. “Dumbass,” he says, soft and fond. “You still don’t really believe us, even after all this.”

“I’m…” He has to stop and swallow again, clear his throat. “I’m working on it. I’m getting better.”

“Yeah, I know. Still, I can’t fucking wait until it’s finally sunken into that thick skull of yours, Tin Man. That’s gonna be a great day.” Clint grins at him, ruffles his hair, and slides off his lap, completely ignoring Tony’s whine of protest. “In the meantime, guess we’ll just have to try harder to prove it to you.”

“Any harder, and I’ll need a new pair of pants,” Tony grouses with a scowl, and is rewarded for his complaints with a shit-eating grin and a mocking chuckle. 

**oOoOoOo**

Once Laura’s finished recording the ransom demands, she saves the video onto a thumb drive and places it in the box for Natasha to bring back to the compound. Just for a moment, she wavers, staring down into the cardboard packaging with a flutter of anxiety in her stomach. Her hands rest on the flaps, curl lightly around the edges before she shakes herself out of the weird headspace and resolutely closes it. 

“He’s not really going to need rescue,” Laura says as she passes the box to Natasha, waiting in the quinjet for the package. “If anyone looks like they’re going to gear up and come save him…”

Natasha snorts, licking caramel off her thumb as she does so. “Laura, you’re worrying over nothing. Even if anyone took this as a real kidnapping, the list of demands you two put together clearly indicates it’s not.” She pauses, eyes Laura, then stows the box under the copilot’s chair and takes another bite of her brownie. “What’s really going on?”

Laura shakes her head, lips pressing together. “I don’t know,” she says helplessly. “I just can’t help but think that Tony’s losing interest in us. This isn’t like me. Not the anxiety, not asking you to steal him from New York for us, not the uncertainty I’m feeling about… anything.” She scrubs her face with both hands, runs her fingers through her hair. “What am I doing?”

Natasha eyes her for another minute, then pops the last bit of brownie into her mouth, sucks the crumbs off her fingers, and pulls a quarter out of her pocket. “Laura, I love you,” she says, and drops the quarter into Laura’s hand. “But if you think Tony’s losing interest in you, then you are a fucking moron.”

“Why does everyone think this is a pay-to-swear service?” Laura asks, exasperated, but pockets the quarter. She hesitates a moment, then sighs. “I’m being ridiculous.”

“Yes,” Natasha replies flatly. “You are. Now get out of my quinjet and get back to your weekend. You put a lot of effort into the planning. I advise you not to waste it, because I sure as hell don’t give refunds for customer dissatisfaction.”

“Thanks again, Nat,” Laura says softly, and backs out of the quinjet the same way she entered it. She watches for a moment as Natasha lifts off and streaks away, then sighs to herself, smiling ruefully as she heads back into the house. Natasha’s right, she decides. No point in wasting the weekend. No sense in looking for problems before they even appear on the horizon. 

She locks the door behind her and follows the low murmur of voices into the living room, where Clint and a now-untied Tony are sitting together, one leaning against the other in a comfortable sprawl. They both look up as she pauses in the door, and for a moment, she holds her breath as Tony’s eyes darken and rake over her body. 

Then he pulls away from Clint and gets to his feet, holding a hand out as he takes a couple of steps towards her. “I know you’ve got this whole weekend planned out, sweetheart,” he says softly, “and you have no idea how much on board I am with the whole thing, but before we get started, can I just hold you for a minute?”

God, he ruins her every time when he says things like that, completely ruins her for the rest of her life. Why did she ever entertain the notion that he might not want her anymore when the look on his face so clearly says he does? “Of course you can,” she says, voice thick with emotion, and reaches out to take his hand. “I’d like that very much.”

His grin, the way it lights up his face, is the only thing in the world she needs to see just then, and it reassures her all the way back to the couch, where he tugs her down and arranges her across their laps. His sigh of contentment is deep and vast, and it rumbles through his chest and into hers. “I’m sorry I wasn’t home before now,” he mumbles, nose finding its way behind her ear and breath shivering across her shoulder. “I promise I’ll do better in the future.”

“I’m sorry I had you kidnapped,” she replies softly, and arches a questioning eyebrow at Clint’s sudden smirk.

Tony’s mouth curves into a smile against her throat, and she shudders finely when he presses a kiss to the sensitive skin. “No need to apologize. This is the most fun I’ve had on a kidnapping, and that includes the time a bus full of co-eds on spring break kidnapped me in Miami.”

“High praise,” she says lightly, but the hard ball of uncertainty and insecurity in her chest loosens just a little more. He wouldn't say it if he didn’t mean it, and she has more faith in that than almost anything else. “I’ll do my best to make sure you’re not disappointed.”

“Last thought in my mind,” Tony says, pulling back enough to see her face and smoothing her hair away from her forehead. He smiles, with just a glint of wickedness. “In fact, having been threatened with a weekend of debauchery and sin, I’d have to say that disappointment is pretty much the last thing I expect to be in your mercy, Laura.”

“He’s very into the idea,” Clint adds with his own wicked smile, and spider walks his fingers up her spine until she’s arching and shivering. “And you already know where I stand. I vote we have that important conversation, and then take advantage of the fact we’re completely alone out here.”

“I’d like another minute or two,” Laura says, strangely reluctant to move from Tony’s lap and strangely surging with emotions again. “I’ve missed this. Just let me have another moment here before we go upstairs.”

Tony’s hands are warm as they drift soothingly up her back, and Clint slides an arm around her waist, resting his head against Tony’s shoulder. “Take as much time as you need, Laura,” Tony says softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good,” Laura says, closes her eyes and lets herself bask in the feel of both of them at her side, surrounding her, just where they should always be. They’ll go upstairs in a minute, begin the weekend properly, but right now, this is what she needs most, and she intends to soak it in for as long as she can get away with.

 


End file.
